“Looks like it,” said Sam.
Just then the report of a pistol-shot rang
out, and Peter leaped in the air. He was not hurt, but the bullet had struck between his fore paws, and he was frightened.
Stumpy turned like a flash. The two strangers were approaching, laughing heartily, and one of them was about to shoot again. Stumpy was a small man, probably a foot shorter than either of the newcomers, but his hair was very red. He sprang to his feet.
“That’s my dog,” he said, pulling off his coat, and the man who was poising his revolver lowered it.
“No offence, friend,” he said, pleasantly. “I just wanted to see the dog dance.”
“Dance, is it?” shouted Stumpy, in a fine rage. “That dog’s no circus. If it’s dancin’ ye want, I’ll dance, but it’s on your ugly face it’ll be, wid you on the flat o’ your back.” And he squared off in excellent style.
“There, there,” said the big man, soothingly, “I’ll not fight you, and I’ll not bother your dog, if it’s yours. Come and have a drink.”